Prodigality and Poetry
by AMarguerite
Summary: For the revolutionbut livejournal challenge. Monsieur Gillenormand takes a walk with his daughter, and a very young Marius, Marius gets his hand stuck in his pocket, and Feuilly liberates himself from begging.


Diclaimer: Hugo created them. I created the situation. If it doesn't make sense, it's because I wrote it very late at night. Pray exccuse me. The basic premise was created by AmZ for the revolutionbut challenge.

* * *

No one would ever say that a man with a name as prodigious and portentous as Luc- Esprit Gillenormand was prodigal in any sense of the word. He passed on the monetary affairs of his household to occupy his wives, not as a show of munificence. He gave lectures to beggars instead of coin, and hoarded his praise so carefully, only his mistresses had ever managed to suck it out of him. He was practical to the last, never once indulging his youngest daughter's fantasies, and conducting his life as was acceptable when he was young. Through wise management he had managed to preserve his teeth and appearance. He dressed well, though not as well as he liked, for he often reminisced about the waistcoats he wore in his youth, and he fastidiously curled his gray hair each morning, taking care to tie it back in a plain black ribbon that greatly resembled the ribbons he had worn in his youth. He was never miserly, yet he never was generous with anything except criticism.

However, one could accuse the esteemed gentleman of the occasional fit of frivolity.

The incident of which we speak occurred once, on a fine spring evening, when even the most pragmatic of men turn poet, and the men with souls chained to the earth by the deepest suffering and misery venture to dream of the stars. Monsieur Gillenormand was a fine mood and declared as much to his small entourage.

"Nature," Monsieur Gillenormand grandiloquently informed his spinster daughter, a tall, lean old maid who appeared ten years older than she actually was, "now shows us the full force of her wisdom." Monsieur Gillenormand always spoke as if addressing a salon full of his wittiest contemporaries, chest thrown out and head tilted back so his voice carried. "She also, in order that civilization may have a bit of everything, gives us, today a slice of Paradise. Not for her, the Greek ideal of moderation! I dare even Plato to contradict me on the perfection of this day." Monsieur Gillenormand thrust his walking stick to the side for emphasis, causing his only grandson, a quiet, bright-eyed boy of six, to walk into his grandfather's walking stick, and fall backwards.

Startled by his sudden fall, and the interruption to his childish daydreams, Monsieur Gillenormand's grandson began to cry.

Monsieur Gillenormand was thrown into a panic, and could only find a vent for his concern through a show of furious anger. "Marius! We do not hold with Rousseau in this household, and we do not express emotion in the middle of crowded streets!"

The street was nearly empty, but no matter.

The reprimand served only to terrify Marius further, and the boy merely held his breath and hid his face in his aunt's skirts. Mademoiselle Gillenormand was dumbfounded, and flushed with self- righteous anger and flapped her hands uselessly.

Monsieur Gillenormand hauled Marius up by the collar of his shirt, feeling an unaccountable sense of panic. "Marius," he began, with unaccustomed gruffness, "following Rousseau is just one step away from being a Jacobin. You know what a Jacobin is!"

Marius had had the response drilled into him since he was young, and managed to forlornly hiccup, "Yes, grandfather."

"What are Jacobins?"

"Regicides." Marius did not know what the word meant, but it usually appeased his grandfather, and usually made the venerable gentleman lower his cane.

Mademoiselle Gillenormand, lips pursed, twitched her skirts away from Marius and turned her nose up. As was usually the case, she could not think of anything to say, so, instead, acted as if she had several choice words she was too polite to let loose on her young nephew.

"And what are regicides?" Monsieur Gillenormand demanded, ignoring his daughter.

"Jacobins?" Marius asked hopefully.

Monsieur Gillenormand could not think of an answer to this, and so readjusted his grip on his cane. Marius, terrified that he would be punished for his wrong answer, burst into tears once again.

Monsieur Gillenormand was at a loss. He switched his cane from hand to hand, muttering nonsensically to himself. "Bah, the boy's just like his mother. All grand sweeps of emotion." This train of thought lead him to think of his wives, and how wonderfully calm they'd been once he turned his finances over to them. Monsieur Gillenormand brightened and dug in the shallow pockets of his coat. With great pomp and ceremony, he removed the first coin he found, a five franc piece, and presented it to Marius.

Marius was startled enough to stop crying. Mademoiselle Gillenormand sighed as eloquently as possible and gently prodded him in the back.

"Thank your grandfather Marius," the spinster commanded, seizing Marius's shoulder and shaking it for emphasis.

Marius hesitantly took the coin and managed a squeaky, tremulous, 'merci'.

Monsieur Gillenormand was merely relieved Marius had stopped crying. "There's a good lad. What will you do with that?"

Marius did not know the answer, and felt panicked. He looked around for inspiration, and spotted a stray cat walking jauntily across the street.

"Buy a kitten?" Marius suggested hopefully. Judging by his aunt's sniff and his grandfather's decision to start walking again, this was most likely not the right answer, so Marius decided to calmly, and rationally, explain his reasoning. "I like cats because they're quiet, and we don't have a cat. There's a cat in Madame T-'s salon. She said there was a woman who had a salon filled with thirty cats before the Revolution-"

His grandfather's face darkened perceptibly and Marius felt he had stumbled onto the wrong subject. However, Marius had a touch of his father's obstinacy, and would not give up on the subject of buying a kitten.

"Before the regicides killed everything," Marius continued on, determinedly. "Did they kill the cats too? That is why I want a cat."

As neither Gillenormand could follow the reasoning of a six- year- old, they held their peace and continued walking. Marius stuffed the coin into the pocket of his coat and ran to keep up.

"You could give the money as an offering to the Church, Marius," his aunt suggested at long last. "You certainly need all the divine help possible with that… with your unfortunate father."

"We are not to talk of him," Monsieur Gillenormand cut in darkly. "The man is a traitor and a rebel. We were lucky to save Marius before Monsieur the Baron could corrupt him."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand lifted her nose higher in the air. "All the more reason to give it to God, in thanks."

"It would be better spent on flowers, for a pretty girl," Monsieur Gillenormand said musingly. "Ah, this is the test of Marius's character! We shall see what sort of man he will be from how he spends his money. If he gives it to the poor, it is a mark of excessive charity, and we shall have to teach him the value of money. If he spends it on books, it is a mark of a burgeoning student, and we shall have to hire another tutor. If he spends it on papers and ink, it is the mark of the poet, and we shall have to- André Chénier! Marius, what did the Jacobins do to André Chénier?"

Marius thought about this a moment. He had never heard of André Chénier before. However, he did know that Jacobins killed things. "Killed him?"

Monsieur Gillenormand grunted and turned to his daughter. "You see? He knows his history. He could become a minister!"

"Marius is six, father," Mademoiselle Gillenormand replied, bewildered.

"Six and a quarter," Marius corrected helpfully, as their small party turned the corner.

"It would be better than the men now in power, all low- born and bourgeois, scoundrels comparable only to the load of scoundrels in the French Revolution." Monsieur Gillenormand clapped him on the back, and Marius stumbled forward. "What was the French Revolution Marius?"

Marius did not know what to make of this, and so put his hands in his pockets. Much to his dismay, however, his right hand, instead of meeting his five franc piece, and the silk lining of his pocket, met the open air. "Not good," he whispered, eyes wide.

"Exactly," Monsieur Gillenormand trumpeted. "The French Revolution was a load of scoundrels!"

Marius managed to stick his hand, up to his wrist, through the hole in his pocket, and waved at the ground, to prove to himself that there was, indeed, a hole in his pocket. He swiveled around, in a discreet attempt at recovering his lost property.

Mademoiselle Gillenormand became cognizant of Marius's odd behavior. "Marius, what are, you- oh!" She had spotted Marius's hand, emerging from his coat, not from his sleeve, but from his pocket. "What have you done to your coat?"

"It's broken," Marius replied stiffly, clenching his hands into fists. "It isn't my fault it's broken."

"Why didn't you tell Nicolette there was a hole in your pocket? Oh, your good coat, too!" Mademoiselle Gillenormand clucked at him in disapproval.

"I didn't know there was a hole in it," Marius replied, trembling slightly. "I don't wear this coat because you said I'm not to get it dirty." He then attempted to pull his fisted hand out of his pocket and couldn't. "I'm stuck."

"Eh, you're what?" Monsieur Gillenormand turned to his grandson and observed him cynically. "So this is to be your future character? A wastrel who cannot keep track of his own property? With a mother as silly as yours, and a father as much a scoundrel as Robespierre, it is amazing you have behaved so well these six years."

Marius began to cry again. He had already developed a distaste for his grandfather's cynicism, and a veritable hatred of his grandfather's walking stick.

"We'll go back and look for it; no need to carry on in that fashion."

Marius endeavored to stop and wiped his eyes on the back of his left hand.

"Use your handkerchief," his aunt admonished.

Marius had lost his handkerchief, along with his five franc piece, and so was unable to follow his aunt's advice. The three turned and retraced their steps, but failed, alas, to find the five francs. Monsieur Gillenormand was irate, and walked up and down the street, shooting black looks at the pedestrians who stared at him. Mademoiselle Gillenormand scolded Marius, in between asking the same pedestrians who had stared at her father if they had seen a five- franc coin.

Marius, in desperation, accosted the first passer-by he saw, a grimy youth clad in a torn chemise and dirty knee breeches that went down to the tops of his scuffed and clunky shoes. The lad was furtively clutching a scratched pinewood box to his chest.

"Have you seen a five franc piece?" Marius asked him hopefully. However, Marius soon realized this was a breach of the manners he learned in Madame T-'s salon. Marius held out his right hand, though it was still stuck through his pocket and very seriously said, "My name is Marius Pontmercy, and I am sorry to have talked to you without having been introduced."

"Feuilly," the youth replied cautiously. He darted a hand out to grasp Marius's before he drew his hand back and clutched his box again.

"What's in the box?" Marius inquired politely.

"It's a paint-box," Feuilly replied, brightening. "I've been saving up what I get begging for months, and I found a five franc piece on the ground."

"That was mine," Marius informed him, seriously.

Feuilly's face fell. "I've been saving for months! The artist I bought it from won't be happy, since he needed the money more than the paints. If I don't learn how to paint, then I go back to begging. I won't beg. I want to work. I'm going to… to liberate myself from poverty. I'm going to paint fans. I'm going to have a job." Feuilly clutched the paint box closely to his chest, and then slowly added, "But if it was yours, then it was yours. You might get in trouble for losing it. Was it to buy food? If it was-" Feuilly bravely held out the paint box to Marius "-take this. The artist lives in the building behind us. He lives in the garret on the third floor."

Marius thought about this a moment. "I'll give the five francs to you. I wanted to buy a kitten, but it could buy a paint box, instead."

Feuilly smiled and clutched the box to his chest again. "You can find a kitten in any alleyway. Paint boxes you can't find. I'm going to liberate myself from begging, thanks to you."

Marius did not know what 'liberate' meant, but he did know what begging was. He also knew that he wasn't supposed to speak to beggars. So Marius said, very stiffly and formally. "It was a pleasure to meet you Monsieur Feuilly. I must take my leave of you."

"Your hand is stuck in your pocket," Feuilly informed him.

"My coat is broken," Marius replied, irritated. "Good bye."

Marius turned on his heel and left to catch up with his family. Marius tugged on his grandfather's coattails.

"I found it," Marius said to his grandfather.

"Ah!" his grandfather cried, turning and looking at Marius. "That will teach you the value of money then."

"It's mine to use?" Marius inquired, looking up at his grandfather and trembling slightly.

"Yes. Why?"

"I used it."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand was shocked by this turn of events. "Whatever on, Marius?"

"I bought a paint box. I gave it to Monsieur Feuilly, so he could…." Marius trailed off, deep in thought. "Liberate himself from begging. I wanted a kitten very much, though."

The Gillenormands looked at each other in muted astonishment.

"He'll be benevolent," Monsieur Gillenormand said at last. "He'll be one of those impractical poetic souls who starve in garrets and write poetry as they contemplate the essential beauty of the human spirit."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand pursed her lips and reserved comment, as she had nothing relevant to say.

"My hand is stuck," Marius pointed out pragmatically.

Monsieur Gillenormand regarded him with a mixture of pride and exasperation. "What shall we do with you, Marius?"

"Get my hand out?"

"A wise course of action. It seems you are not totally devoid of sense."

It came to pass that Marius found a book of poetry by André Chénier in his room the next day, and Monsieur Gillenormand, peaking through the keyhole to Marius's rooms, was pleased that Marius opened the book and immediately began reading.

The book was upside down, but no matter. Marius had the soul of a poet, and Monsieur Gillenormand was well pleased.


End file.
